The silent New Mexico night was unusual along I40. The interstate was usually lively at all times of the day, though the activity did slack off during the night. The only thing seen along the road at this time was a single Crown Victoria of the New Mexico State Police. The officer inside was repeatedly dozing off and waking back due to the irregular boredom. Three years of having staked out this particular stretch had attuned him to late night impromptu street races between idiots in imports and over time truckers letting the throttle open hoping to cut some time off of their loads so they could get a bonus or just hit the load on time due to traffic conditions or some other delay. The officer honestly thought of calling in and saying that there was zero activity and then heading back to Las Cruces and his bed.
It wouldn't have been the first time he had. The last car he had actually ticketed during his watch was two months ago, and that was some idiot in a 93 Mustang who was trying to get to Tucson as soon as he could. He was a little surprised that the little four banger in it had hit 150, but the engine was probably not stock. That was a month ago. These lulls happened every year. In summer and late fall. The state trooper didn't know why and he didn't care. He really didn't like the boredom of just sitting on the side of the road with his radar going.
Sliding himself into as comfortable a position as he could he decided to take a nap. As he started to actually doze off he picked up on a hum. Not like what you hear with an electrical short, or anything he could identify right off. Listening as the pitch got louder he instantly knew what it was. A carbureted big block Chevy, there wasn't another sound like it, and this one was wound up tight and moving. Snapping himself back straight he glued his eyes on the readout. To his surprise it started going up before the car even came into sight. He looked up just as a matte black car sped by, and looking down at the readout he knew better than to even try to chase it. His Crown Vic topped out at 180 MPH, the car that passed him blew by at 234 MPH.
"To all cars east of my position, I just had a speeder in a large black car go past in excess of two and thirty miles per hour. No make or license available. Only other data is that it has a big block V8 engine," the officer sent out over the radio.
The lines of the 1972 Chevelle SS454 seemed to cut the night air like a cheese wire. Very few muscle cars could be made to go as fast, and very few drivers had the balls to do it. After the warzones he had seen, the driver felt that topping out at two sixty was not fast enough, but he knew that he was pushing it as it was. He let off the gas and backed the midsized coupe down to one ninety, slower, but still faster than most of the cops through Texas. He wasn't concerned with the New Mexico State Police, they never had a good enough look at his car to put out an APB.
Only one thing could ruin his mood. The fact that the needle was dangerously close to empty. Sighing he drove on, and was lucky enough to find a truck stop withing ten miles. Pulling in to the pumps he shut the beast off. Digging a couple of twenties out of his pocket he figured he could get a tank of gas and something to eat. Walking in he didn't notice the Hummer pull in behind him.
After browsing the racks for a few minutes he managed to find something that looked halfway decent to eat. Going back to the drink coolers it took him a couple of minutes to decide what he wanted, he really didn't have a preference when it came to cokes, so he just picked a bottle of root beer out of the cooler and said to hell with it. Walking up to the counter he took in the sight of the girl at the counter reading a magazine, he didn't blame her, it was boring as hell in the middle of the Sonora at 1:25 in the morning. Still he disturbed her long enough to pay for his meal and gas as a couple of Mexicans came in waving shotguns.
"Hey pendejos, this a hold up. Dinero on the counter, and hombre fork over the keys to that putear paseo at the pump," he waited for the driver to hand him the keys, "Now tragona, unless you like eating buckshot for desayuno."
The man simply smiled, "Hombre, I don't give anyone the keys to that SS. I also don't like illegals coming over the border into my country thinking they can do whatever the hell they want. Now take your little boomsticks and get the fuck out of here before you lose a body part or two."
The Mexican stared for a second, "Hijo de puta, I swear if you don't do what I am telling you , then you gonna eat the barrel of this escopeta. I want the keys to the carro, and any dinero you have."
The Mexican started to smile just as he felt the butt of his weapon hit him under the chin. Next he felt his trigger finger snap as the gun was wrenched away from him. The last thing he heard was his partners gun go off as it hit the ground and his truck speed away. After that he fainted. When he came to he was in handcuffs and a state trooper was picking him up off the ground.
He hadn't cared for cops much. Strangely enough he had done two tours in Somalia as an MP guarding supply convoys. That really only made him a grunt with a different mission profile, but he basically did the same thing as general infantry. That may have also been where he developed his wild side. Before the Marines he wouldn't have dared jerk a shotgun out of a thugs hands muzzle first, now he didn't even think about it.
He quieted his thoughts and let the road take his attention. He loved driving through the desert, it was so peaceful usually. Usually, though, he didn't have a 68 Corvette pulling even with him doing one thirty five. Pressing on the gas he took the twenty five year old car up to two ten and watched the amateur fall away for a second before climbing back to neck and neck with him. This guy wasn't an amateur like he thought, it took still to handle a car as light as a 'Vette at these speeds, let alone get one this fast. Though he usually wouldn't he tapped the brakes just long enough to fall back and slide in behind the other driver. Thus started a dance with death.
Even people who didn't care a thing one for cars would have found it beautiful. The two black Chevrolets weaving among themselves and any car they encountered, coming withing just sixteenths of an inch of touching. Only real drivers, or people who practice that kind of choreographed driving, could have pulled it off. In the pale moonlight it made it seem like two shadows upon the asphalt as they drove over one hundred and thirty miles over the speed limit, and handled their cars like the most delicate of ballet dancers.
Coming to a rest stop both pulled in, eager to size up their impromptu companion. The Chevelle's driver stepped out first, standing his full six feet in an attempt to impress his acquaintance, his dark mahogany colored hair reflecting the full moon that hung in the sky. The Corvette's door opened and a behemoth of a man stepped out, a patch of metal shining from his forehead, and standing almost a foot taller than the other man. Both sized each other up. Then they turned to the cars.
"You don't seem many Chevelles with a LS7," the larger man said.
The Chevelle's driver snorted, "You could say the same for Corvettes. As far as I know the number of assembled engines was only in the teens. Though we both know that our engines are far from stock. It takes a lot of balls to drive a 68 at those speeds, you have the front weighted to keep it from catching lift don't you?"
"Your good. Did you completely rework the suspension on it?"
"No, I completely rebuilt the undercarriage, put heavy springs on the inside, and went with stock on the out, keeps the torque from twisting the frame at high revs. Was a bitch to find the right combination."
The giant held out his hands, "The names Bean. Bean Bandit."
The other man took it, "They call me Diesel."
"I think I know only two other people that could have driven like that, and both of them are in Illinois. Wish I could go back there, but it wouldn't be good for my health. Got a cop who wants my head for a hood ornament. He totaled a Mach 1 trying to get me, and that left a vacuum of power in Chicago."
"You have my curiosity peaked. What kind of power vacuum. Were you the king of the street racing scene?"
Bean smiled, "Among other things. What is really needed is a reliable driver."
"A transporter in other words. A dangerous occupation, sometimes on the wrong side of the law. Is this a recruitment drive?"
"It started as a couple of daredevil drivers dancing on the interstate, but yeah, you are what they need."
Diesel smirked, "I ain't making much at the moment. Why not, might be fun. Never have been that far north of the Mason-Dixon."
"Good, I ain't going to be in the country much longer, and I have a friend up there that needs someone to watch her back," Bean said as he lowered himself to sit sideways in the classic sports car's seat.
"Her, now I really am interested. You said that in a 'I would take a bullet for her, but I ain't in love with her' kind of way."
A booming laugh filled the air, "I would love to see Rally's face when she meets you."
In Chicago you could find almost every thing, from some of the finest prostitutes in the states, to some of the hardest drugs, and a gun store with a strange name; Gunsmith Cats. The S was obviously an after thought and nobody wanted to pay to have the sign changed. It was made even more apparent by the abhorrent riveting job on the sheet metal. Though nobody said that gunsmiths had to be master riveters.
The proprietor, one Irene Vincent, formerly known by the street name Rally sneezed. Brushing it off as some of the dust from the stock she was shaping she went back to work. When she had decided to give up her real job and went full on into the gun sales and service bit she found that she made even more money than before. So was the life of the best gunsmith in the state. Laying down the rasp she decided to call it a day.
Walking through a door into the house connected to the shop she looked at a picture hanging on the wall. Three women and a man. Her and her long time friend, Minnie May, a girl she tried her best to forget, and Bean Bandit, the best wheelman she knew. It brought back a hint of nostalgia looking at the photograph. It was taken at the finish line of a race Bean had run, a Fords only invitational, of them posed around a 1970 Boss 429. There wasn't even a contest from the beginning. She missed him.
She didn't see anyone from the old days anymore. Minnie May was busy with her daughter, and helping run the manga shop her husband opened. Becky had disappeared at some point, whether she was dead or not was unknown. Bean had disappeared as well, though for different reasons. Even Roy had moved on, deciding to become a sheriff up north rather than remain a detective for CPD. Now all she had were her customers. Maybe she should actually think of settling down, she was only twenty-five, still young and desirable.
A/N: This is an attempted reboot of a fic, the only fic, that I hated enough to delete. When I started I was still fairly new at writing. My only major story was a Legend of Zelda fic, a subject I had experience with since I was a young child. Gunsmith Cats is something I discovered in high school and fell in love with, and was probably what really pushed me into the borderline otaku state I find my self in today. I would really like reviews on this, I know that it is a really small fandom, and that is a shame, but I know that you fans do exist. If you can't find the manga's to buy, there are scanlations available on Mangafox for those of you who haven't read them.